glory of
power and the song of fulfilment, just as he had desired.
But the gold and jewels were scattered now,
melted and changed over the passage of time. The beautiful women
were dust and less than dust, and the kingdom was lost scant years
after its founding. The first of the wishgivers had not lingered to
see this: The last of his power, and the whole of his life, broke
and burst in the instant the kingdom had been created. He was gone
to wind and sand and the burning sun above.
The Genies had no time to bid their brother
farewell. Sobered, they hid in the shadows and the little, secret
places that magic makes. They made vows of abstinence, and swore to
each other that they would not squander their lives or their gift
on insubstantial longing.
But the teacher had been right. What lives
must have purpose. One by one, over the passage of millennia, the
Genies succumbed to the silent call of their magical vocation. Yes,
they grew crafty, and yes, they struggled to make their wishes
immortal and fixed in the stream of time. Some created works of
genius, and some bestowed genius upon the merely mortal; some
created immortals, too soon lost to violent death when time would
not take them. Some created war, and some won them; some let their
seekers touch and know magic’s glory.
But the price was always the same: The Genies
grew beautiful in their work—incandescent to the eyes of their
brothers, sublimely terrible—and when that work was done, they were
gone.
The last of the Genies had once been
privileged to watch one of his brother’s giftings: The third and
last. And he remembered, no matter how hard he had tried to forget,
the pained look of surprise and loss, the sudden struggle and
scramble for life, that had loomed for an instant upon a visage
that was already disintegrating.
He had been afraid, then.
He made his vow and made it strong by seeing,
always, the face of his long dead brother. When the last of his kin
finally succumbed to a call and temptation that had grown too ripe,
he said a prayer to the maker, to no avail. He was the last of his
kind, and he had lived without purpose for a very long time.
* * *
As time passed, he learned how to avoid the
call of human longing. He adorned himself in the guise of humanity,
rather than the guise of the magical, and wandered human streets,
watching time change them with distant fascination. He travelled
the ocean, and listened to the whales mourn the coming of the
great, noisy ships that cut them off, forever, from the voices of
brothers they would never see.
He came to the new world—it was called a new
world for reasons that he did not understand—because the people who
came were few, and their dreams were linked to reality and their
own actions. The young, he did not trust; it was always the young
that had drawn his kin in and ground them up in the saying of three
simple sentences in any of a number of languages. Not even all of
the languages had survived their wishers.
He hid in the wild, listening to the hungry
dreams of winter wolves and sleeping rabbits. But the towns and the
cities always called him back; he could hear the dreams and the
fervently uttered prayers that he had been born to answer. There
was no sweeter sound, and none more terrible; he could not live
with it, but the emptiness of its absence hurt in a different
way.
He learned that the easiest way to avoid
people was to stand beneath their gazes. He made the street his
home, and conjured the clothing—with its peculiar smell—of the curb
dwellers. He held out his hand, and murmured a sing-song little
plea for coin, and men and women, with their dreams buried deep in
darkened hearts, would scurry past in all their finery, never
dreaming of what they might take from him, if they could see beyond
his illusion. They would not even meet his eyes or raise their
heads while they sped past, and that was for the best.
* * *
It was winter in the city—which meant that
snow and cold had driven
power and the song of fulfilment, just as he had desired.
But the gold and jewels were scattered now,
melted and changed over the passage of time. The beautiful women
were dust and less than dust, and the kingdom was lost scant years
after its founding. The first of the wishgivers had not lingered to
see this: The last of his power, and the whole of his life, broke
and burst in the instant the kingdom had been created. He was gone
to wind and sand and the burning sun above.
The Genies had no time to bid their brother
farewell. Sobered, they hid in the shadows and the little, secret
places that magic makes. They made vows of abstinence, and swore to
each other that they would not squander their lives or their gift
on insubstantial longing.
But the teacher had been right. What lives
must have purpose. One by one, over the passage of millennia, the
Genies succumbed to the silent call of their magical vocation. Yes,
they grew crafty, and yes, they struggled to make their wishes
immortal and fixed in the stream of time. Some created works of
genius, and some bestowed genius upon the merely mortal; some
created immortals, too soon lost to violent death when time would
not take them. Some created war, and some won them; some let their
seekers touch and know magic’s glory.
But the price was always the same: The Genies
grew beautiful in their work—incandescent to the eyes of their
brothers, sublimely terrible—and when that work was done, they were
gone.
The last of the Genies had once been
privileged to watch one of his brother’s giftings: The third and
last. And he remembered, no matter how hard he had tried to forget,
the pained look of surprise and loss, the sudden struggle and
scramble for life, that had loomed for an instant upon a visage
that was already disintegrating.
He had been afraid, then.
He made his vow and made it strong by seeing,
always, the face of his long dead brother. When the last of his kin
finally succumbed to a call and temptation that had grown too ripe,
he said a prayer to the maker, to no avail. He was the last of his
kind, and he had lived without purpose for a very long time.
* * *
As time passed, he learned how to avoid the
call of human longing. He adorned himself in the guise of humanity,
rather than the guise of the magical, and wandered human streets,
watching time change them with distant fascination. He travelled
the ocean, and listened to the whales mourn the coming of the
great, noisy ships that cut them off, forever, from the voices of
brothers they would never see.
He came to the new world—it was called a new
world for reasons that he did not understand—because the people who
came were few, and their dreams were linked to reality and their
own actions. The young, he did not trust; it was always the young
that had drawn his kin in and ground them up in the saying of three
simple sentences in any of a number of languages. Not even all of
the languages had survived their wishers.
He hid in the wild, listening to the hungry
dreams of winter wolves and sleeping rabbits. But the towns and the
cities always called him back; he could hear the dreams and the
fervently uttered prayers that he had been born to answer. There
was no sweeter sound, and none more terrible; he could not live
with it, but the emptiness of its absence hurt in a different
way.
He learned that the easiest way to avoid
people was to stand beneath their gazes. He made the street his
home, and conjured the clothing—with its peculiar smell—of the curb
dwellers. He held out his hand, and murmured a sing-song little
plea for coin, and men and women, with their dreams buried deep in
darkened hearts, would scurry past in all their finery, never
dreaming of what they might take from him, if they could see beyond
his illusion. They would not even meet his eyes or raise their
heads while they sped past, and that was for the best.
* * *
It was winter in the city—which meant that
snow and cold had driven
Similar Books
